


As It Should Be

by iceblueteacup



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Violence, Drug Use, Eating Disorders, M/M, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:21:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27337081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iceblueteacup/pseuds/iceblueteacup
Summary: All the differences between unrequited love with the right man and requited love with the wrong one. Set between Sherlock's teens and early twenties in University all the way up to his life after John's wedding. All the ways the world can break you, and all the ways it broke Sherlock. A love story turn psychological thriller.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 13
Kudos: 22





	1. PART ONE: The Unexpected and Unintended

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment to lmk what you think and if I should continue!!!

PART ONE

Chapter 1

Sherlock didn't intend for it to seem like a date. He'd only met John that morning, and besides, he wasn't particularly interested in becoming involved with a potential new flatmate. He'd learnt that harsh reality within the walls he previously dwelt. He'd moved in with an old classmate. They'd both just finished their PhD's, and although they'd barely spoken two words to each other throughout their time at University, they both came to be in need of a flatmate at the same time, and well, lets just say it didn't end well, hence the search for a new flatmate. Hence the need for John.

It didn't help that the restaurant owner brought over a candle to make it 'more romantic' and insisted on calling John his date. It wasn't completely out of left field for this man to assume John was Sherlock's date. It was clear that both men were new to each other, both a similar age, unmarried and seemingly nervous. Anyone could have made such a deduction. Although Sherlock had doubts someone as ordinary as the restaurant owner had noticed all this. Instead, it was more likely, simply due to the fact that Sherlock had taken many previous dates to this exact spot. Well, by many, he really only means two. His ex flatmate - turn relationship - turn bitter exes, and of course his old University boyfriend, James, who he had been with for 3 years during university and then off and on again since. Sherlock would see him any time James came back to London. He'd come for business, just for a weekend, for weeks at a time to see family, or even for months at a time when he decided to stop travelling round the world and decided he 'wanted to settle down'. They'd fit back into each others lives as if they'd never been apart, their hearts beating to the same rhythm, their steps working like clockwork in the same direction, it all seeming too good to be true, until one day Sherlock wakes up to a cold empty bed, and a note from James saying he had been offered a job he couldn't refuse, with some form of a promise he'd be back, like his scarf still hanging on the end of Sherlock's bed, or a necklace left on the sink in the bathroom.

However, there was one thing this generous restaurant owner had missed, a deduction clear as day, as obvious as anything. And that was that John Watson was very clearly straight.

John was raised in an old fashioned household, that was clear to Sherlock, with parents who shared the same archaic beliefs on homosexuality and masculinity as Sherlock's own. This was clear in his sisters drinking habits, and in John's gait, as well as the length of his nails and eyebrows, but that's just showing off. And of course being a military man, despite the lengths he went through to lose his prejudices after his sister came out, there are some slivers of it left, that reared their ugly head in the way he was so insistent on denying the idea that he could ever be Sherlock's date. The resentment of the accusation said a lot. Even the way he deems it necessary to remind Sherlock that it is 'fine' to be gay, as if he needed John permission. Sherlock enjoyed mocking John for this, playing with him and pushing him, to watch him fumble over his words when Sherlock pretended to take Johns comments as flirtation and rejected him saying he was in fact 'married to his work'. This wasn't a lie, though, since his last relationship ended so messily he thought it best to avoid men for now. It also proved helpful in avoiding drugs, if he was to focus completely on work instead. Besides, a murder mystery was far more interesting than a relationship, although it could be argued to be less emotionally fulfilling. Though, it best not to ponder on that for too long, really.

John, it turned out, was a great flatmate, and not half as homophobic as Sherlock had taken him for. Over time John even came to find it humorous that the press were so intent that their relationship was anything more than platonic. He laughed one day, as he read the paper, that had expressly concluded that Sherlock had left John broken hearted when he was caught by fans on a date with another man. "I don't think its fair that you'd break my heart, surely it should be the other way round."

"How so?" Sherlock responded, dropping his bow midway through writing a new symphony.

"Well, I'm getting bloody married next week."

Sherlock laughed. "Yes, you're right, that would be something I'd be quite upset about were we in a relationship. But who knows, perhaps we could work through it. It would be awfully modern." Sherlock joked.

"Oh I don't think so Sherlock, I'm afraid to say, even if I was gay, I don't think you'd be my type."

"Oh and what exactly would be your type?" Sherlock replied, mentally noting that this off hand comment had hurt him more than he had been prepared for.

John paused a moment. "Someone shorter." They both laughed.

"Well, if you aim to be the taller half of the relationship it's a good thing you are solely interested in women."

"Yes well… From what I've seen I'm not exactly your type either, so maybe its for the best we aren't together." John was right. He really wasn't Sherlock's type. Not normally. Even when they first met, Sherlock felt sure there was no way he would ever have any kind of feelings towards John. But he was wrong. Over the years they spent together, Sherlock had grown rather fond of John. And in the right lighting, in certain states of disorientation, Sherlock might even admit he had fallen in love with him. He would never admit this to John, despite it being obvious to nearly everyone else around them. He hadn't admitted it to anyone really. Well, only one person, but she didn't really count, because she was, supposedly, dead. It was Irene Adler. The woman. A person he found objectively both beautiful and charismatic. Despite the innate lack of sexual connection between them both, due, of course, to their shared homosexuality, Sherlock felt a bond with her he'd never really felt before. He thought, at first, that it was love. He even told her this. And she just shook her head and said "No Sherlock. You're in love with John." And it was the first time he had acknowledged the assumption. It was the only time he had replied "Yes. I am." It turned out, actually, that the feelings he had toward Irene Adler were, well, friendship. Something he was not so used to.

John, however, also mistook his connection to Irene as one of love. Sherlock didn't dare deny it. He had to bite his tongue, to stop himself saying the words he knew he could never take back. Five words that would change everything. "It's not her, it's you." But there was no use for this. For confessions of love or longing. Because John was straight. And besides, he was the only friend he had that didn't have to evade the government, so he didn't really want to lose him. Instead he just distanced himself from him. Not physically. They still worked together, and up until the day on the roof with Moriarty, they had still lived together. It wasn't the physical closeness that was the problem. So instead he just avoided emotion all together. It came easy for Sherlock to avoid emotion. He had convinced himself and those around him that he was, in fact, a sociopath, with little human emotion. This, of course, was a lie. Mycroft knew this. His parents knew this. Hell, even he knew this, deep down. But sometimes lies are more convenient than the truth. Sometimes lies are more comfortable.

But, after two years of pretending to be dead, John had moved on. And Sherlock was happy for him. He knew John would be able to live a better, normal life, without him. It's why he let him go, didn't tell him he was alive. He wanted John to design a life, a good life, that Sherlock couldn't intrude even if he tried. And he had been so successful. Sherlock even loved the wife he chose, even more so after she shot him. But the flat felt so empty without John. So quiet. So cold. So… boring.

It was the night of John's wedding that things started going bad. He would never admit this to John. He wouldn't let him know the pain he was in, on the happiest day of John's life. Well, factually, the pain he was in BECAUSE of the happiest day of John's life. In the cab on the way back to the flat he called James. He knew he was around, he'd been liking Sherlock's tweets. That always meant something. Before the time John and Mary had finished celebrating their big day, Sherlock was half naked, his hair a mess of intimacy, and a needle being delicately inserted into his arm by his ex boyfriend.


	2. Oxford, Boys and Opiates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Sherlock and James met and fell in love.

Chapter 2

James was intensely clever. At times he seemed to even keep up with Sherlocks own intellect. They had met in the debate team at Oxford. Usually Sherlock found himself wiping the floor with every opponent without any effort at all. Of course, this did lead to most of his classmates thinking of him as an asshole and a show off. But that was the point wasn’t it? In a debate class? He almost couldn’t help it, but it did sting when he noticed the rest of the boys heading to the pub after, without even a look back at Sherlock as he walked to his flat alone. He had felt rather alone at university, he could barely stand to admit it but he missed Mycroft, afterall. You don’t realise the dependence on the feeling of home and familiarity until you lose it completely. But then one day, he arrived to debate class and from that day onwards he never felt a loss of home again. James had transferred partway through his first year at Trinity College to Oxford when his family had made the move to London. Oxford rarely let in people part way through term but James had had the greatest exam results of any other Trinity student in history, and had even been heralded for the thesis he wrote at only 14, that went on to receive multiple prizes and changed modern medicine forever. So yes, James was smart. And he seemed immediately drawn to Sherlock. Seemed to understand him. They would debate, for hours, never either of them winning. And when they were done, they would walk together around campus, smoke cigarettes and talk shit about their classmates. They fell naturally into each other. 

Although it felt as if he had loved James his whole life, it wasn’t until a single damp autumn afternoon that he knew. They had both unspokenly decided they weren’t necessarily in need of the second half of their chemistry class that day. Both knew more about chemistry than half the professors in the place. It just came natural to them, to turn left, instead of right, after they had bought their coffee. To walk further and further away from the university building, their footsteps beating onward against cobbled streets, avoiding puddles and kicking through the blaze of orange and yellow leaves strewn across their path like confetti. After mentioning he was out of cigarettes, Sherlock grabbed James by the hand to steer him in the direction of the off licence. The shared touch lingered a moment too long to be considered platonic, their gaze drawn to each other, they smiled, tenderly at each other, heartbeats growing louder, and palms growing sweatier. The moment felt like an eternity, but was broken in only seconds, when a group of drunken middle aged men staggered out of the Off Licence and began throwing slurs at the both of them. They quickly broke their contact, and heads down, they jostled past the men into the shop, bursting into an eruption of laughter as soon as they were sure the men were out of ear shot. It was clear to Sherlock that this laughter was a disguise for something else. Pain, relief, fear, confusion, it didn’t matter really. But the fact it was there, and it was shared, meant more than anything. Cigarettes purchased, and now more desperately needed than ever, they slipped behind the shop to get out of the wind. Leaning against the wall Sherlock attempted three times to light his cigarette, without success. James gently took the light from his hands, fingers grazing against Sherlock’s palms as he took it, leaning in closely to him as he struck a flame, neatly and easily. So easily in fact, James had often wondered if perhaps Sherlock had struggled purposely. Sherlock leant into the flame, lighting the end of his cigarette, taking a long slow drag, as James lingered still too close. He let his head fall back against the brick as he blew smoke up into the air, the white smoke dancing across the blue sky, like clouds in the wind. When he looked down again, James was inching closer still. Their hearts were pounding, James reached his hand up to Sherlock’s face, resting his hand gently on his cheek, before tenderly brushing a hair from his face, and leaning into a kiss. It was gentle, and passionate, and tasted like cigarette ash. But Sherlock felt his heart rise up into his throat, feeling as if it was about to burst into a million pieces, and scatter like stardust across the universe. Sherlock wanted to say something, anything, as their lips separated and he felt able to breathe again. But he couldn’t find the words. An anomaly in his life, really. He stood, shocked into silence, and James just smiled at him, and said “Come on.” before turning and walking down the path back towards University. 

It became easy, after that, for Sherlock to let himself fall completely in love. All fear and reticence had been firmly stomped into the ground alongside the butts of their cigarettes. It suddenly became natural for Sherlock to be himself, a feeling he had never felt before, and would only feel once more in the future. James challenged Sherlock in a way he had never been challenged before. He comforted him in a way he had never been comforted before. And he made him laugh like he’d never laughed before. Ultimately, what mattered most,was that James knew Sherlock best. He was the first man Sherlock had been with, first person actually. He was the first person, too, that Sherlock had been vulnerable with, the first person he’d allowed himself to be human in front of. To be silly, lighthearted, real, to be wrong in front of. 

They were together for three years, the whole way through University. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that they had both been completely and utterly in love. Sherlock had met James’ parents, and had become quite close to their family dog. James never met Sherlock's parents, though. Despite his efforts to persuade them that his interest in men was not just a phase, his parents still insisted on asking him about potential girlfriends at every chance they got, a firm indication that he was to play pretend when he was in their home. He felt resentful of their disregard for who he really was. Like the true reality of who their son was didn’t matter, as long as he seemed like the perfect ceramic statue, that they could proudly display on their mantlepiece, any cracks lingering beneath the varnish weren’t a concern to them, so long as it looked the part. He did appreciate, however, that there were far worse scenarios he could find himself in, and that often coming out can result in homelessness or even death. So he didn’t like to complain too much. Even less so, when James’ parents died in a tragic car accident, only a year into their relationship. 

Mycroft was the only member of Sherlock’s family to actually meet James. He hated him. It could be argued that this was due to the ingrained familial homophobia that would result in him hating any man Sherlock were to end up with. However, it may have been more justified than that, given that the only time they had met, Mycroft was pulling a needle out of the arm of his brother, that James had inserted only moments earlier. 

Sherlock didn’t blame James for his heroin addiction. He’d been experimenting with drugs since he was 14 years old. It was unlikely he’d had made it through life without trying heroin at some point. It just so happens that James was the person to introduce him to it. 

But Sherlock was just another long haired, tight t-shirt wearing teen queer in the 80’s, it felt like his moral obligation to fulfil conservative stereotypes and start shooting up in the arms of his lover as David Bowie played in the background. 

But now, of course, it was the 21st century, and people were far less prejudiced. But Sherlock was in pain, whether he admitted it or not, so it was now his turn to negatively influence James. The last time he’d seen James, about a year ago, he had been excitedly showing off his 90 day chip from NA. Sherlock was sure he had stayed sober all the way up until the night of John’s wedding, when Sherlock had called him, and the two of them fell quickly into bad habits. But, selfishly, it seemed to be working in his favour, as it had been 6 months since the wedding and James was still around, and was giving off no signs of potentially leaving. 

Sherlock felt loved again. Whether that was the presence of the very first love of his life, James, or the very second love of his life, heroin. When he used, he felt quiet and calm, and not afraid anymore. Molly would tell him he was wasting his gift, but it wasn’t as if anyone really needed him anymore, anyway. He and James relished in their isolation, their self sabotage. There is nothing quite as relaxing as just giving up completely on life. There’s also nothing quite as stressful as giving up on life. Which is why heroin comes in useful. Everything was going well, until one day, out of the blue, John showed up at 221B Baker Street.


	3. The Unexpected Guest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John came to visit Sherlock and didn't expect to see he already had guests

Chapter 3 

John let himself into the flat like he always did. Although usually he is happily announcing that he and Mary had landed on a name, only to quickly retract it the next time, or excitedly sharing the details of a new case, this time he entered the flat already angry, and what he saw made him all the more enraged. He could tell that Sherlock was using again. Not that he’d seen him in months, nor heard from him. But that was the tell, you see. Sherlock only ever stops annoying him when he was high. John wanted to give him space. He was spending more time with this ex boyfriend of his, and he wasn’t intent on ruining a potential relationship for Sherlock. Not when he had seen him struggle for so long to even admit he had emotions. And from what he had heard, Sherlock had been fairly in love with this guy. So he left them to it, thought it was for the best. Besides, he had a pregnant wife, he didn’t exactly want to spend all his time babysitting a genius. But of course, after a while, it became eerily quiet. And pre-natal classes and baby proofing the house only took so long. He noticed the absences of Sherlock in his life, and he didn’t like how much it affected him. Which is why, he supposes, he was so angry at Sherlock. He had always told him, if he was ever close to using again he was only a phone call away. But it felt as if Sherlock had all but forgotten him, and John began to question how strong their friendship had even been in the first place. And one day, Lestrade called him, wondering if he’d heard from Sherlock, because he’d been trying to contact him about a series of murders in whitechapel. It was, from what John could decipher, an actual interesting case. Something Sherlock would normally relish in. And yet, he was still avoiding calls.  
And so one day, when he’d had a day off, and all Mary wanted to do was sleep, he thought, fuck it. Although, he couldn’t blame it completely on boredom, he was also actually incredibly worried. This was his best friend, for christ sake. Or at least, he was supposed to be.  
Only, John had never seen Sherlock when he was relapsing, not properly, not six months in. He becomes a different person, one John had not seen before. And even worse still, he had never seen ‘relationship’ Sherlock either. It was to be a shock. 

John entered Sherlock’s room without knocking, a habit he had picked up as a direct result of resenting Sherlock for doing the very same to him. It began as a way to prove to Sherlock how annoying it is to be walked in on without so much as a knock, but not only did it not phase him at all, it ended up becoming a habit, until both flatmates became far too comfortable encroaching on the others' privacy.  
He found Sherlock in bed, smoking a cigarette, undressed at the very least, from the waist up, his bed sheet keeping a small portion of his dignity intact.  
“Oh, hello John” He said, his words slurring slightly. Even without the various needles, spoons and other paraphernalia John could see lying about the flat, it was obvious he was high. John sighed.  
“Have I disappointed you?” Sherlock chuckled. “Don’t linger in the corridor Mrs Hudson, do come in and see the show!” He announced arrogantly.And to John’s surprise Mrs Hudson did appear from behind him. He couldn’t understand how Sherlock, whilst high off his tits, could have known Mrs Hudson had followed John up into the flat, when John himself hadn’t.  
“Ohhh Sherlock.” Mrs Hudson cooed. “ I do wish you didn’t do this in the house, the trouble you’re going to get me in, I have a record you know.”  
“Of course I know.” He started arrogantly, then softened. “But you know I’d never let anything happen to - “  
As he spoke a man, about the same age as Sherlock, only slightly shorter, sollower in complexion, with jet black wet hair that landed in a mess over his face, fell out of the ensuite bathroom, murmuring “Babe, we’ve run out of conditioner… oh, guests, cool.” He spoke nonchalantly, completely unphased by the intrusion. “I love guests” He said as crawled back into bed next to Sherlock.  
“John, Mrs Hudson, this is James.”  
John only sighed. “Hi.” He nodded at James, he didn’t like the way he only smirked back at him. Sherlock had told John about James once, after a long flight and an emotional case left both men exhausted. It suddenly became easier for Sherlock to talk about emotions, somehow. He’d told John everything about James, how it started, how it’d been so good, until it turned bad. How it always turned bad. Every time he came back, every time he left, and every time Sherlock felt himself slip further from himself. But, also, how he’d loved him, and how he knew James loved him back. And that, to Sherlock, seemed to be the only thing that mattered. Reciprocation.  
“There’s a case, Sherlock, Lestrade is on his way.” John stood there as Sherlock stared back in silence.  
“Well…?” John pushed.  
“Well…” Sherlock mocked. “Will you at least let me put some pants on, or did you want to stay and watch?” James snorted at the comment, the sound alone enraged John. But he didn’t give James the satisfaction, instead he just sighed and left the room quietly, whilst Mrs Hudson commented “I really don’t like that new boyfriend, Sherlock was much happier when he was with you.” She said as she patted him on the shoulder.  
“Mrs Hudson you do remember I am married right? To a woman? I was never with Sherlock.”  
“Oh, I don’t care what you call it, you know what I mean.” She added before swiftly leaving, leaving John perplexed her confusion. 

John could hear laughter emanating from the room he had just left, and felt a grating suspicion that he was the butt of the joke. He made his way to the sofa and sat down, resting his head against the back cushions, exhausted already by the mental capacity it took to talk to Sherlock when he was high. Sherlock had gotten rid of Johns old chair. The flat felt empty without it, despite the growing collection of tat Sherlock had acquired since John had left. There was an entire chemistry set, steaming up the kitchen, and a large pile of cushions and beanbags strewn across the living room, as if he’d stumbled into a teenagers bedroom. 

Lestrade arrived before Sherlock had even left his room. If he had any sense, John thought, he’d be hiding all the incriminating items he currently let dominate his flat. But Sherlock didn’t really have any sense at the moment.  
“Wow, it’s a real tip in ‘ere” Lestrade announced as he entered the flat. “He ought to get himself a girlfriend now you’re gone, I always thought this place needed a woman’s touch.”  
“Uh…” John began. At that moment Sherlock entered the room, he had tidied himself up and could have passed as even being back to normal, had he not had a talk to frank poster boy of a boyfriend trailing behind him.  
“You took your time.” John remarked shortly.  
“Oh well, you know… traffic.” Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes. 

It was uncanny, to John, to see Sherlock interact with such a man, in such a way. He seemed tactile, docile, even… affectionate. But it wasn’t a facade or performance that John had seen before, with Janine or even Molly. It was real. It was strange. John imagined, had Sherlock been sober, he’d perhaps be more discreet. But, given the toxic mix of intoxicants travelling around his system, he leaned in, smiling, and kissed James goodbye, brushing the still damp hair from his face as he did it. He shut the door slowly behind him, seemingly uneager to commence whatever lecture John and Lestrade were about to initiate. Tempted, rather, to follow James out of the flat, follow him wherever he went, and end the day again in each others arms, forgetting the rest of the world exists. But, alas, the game was… afoot?

Sherlock buttoned his jacket as he crossed the room to his chair. Putting on a costume, a disguise.  
“So what's this case then? This murder?”  
“Murders. Three high profile individuals, all killed in their homes, nothing on any of their security, no eye witnesses, nothing to go on.” John explained.  
“And?”  
“And… all three of them are connected. Through a list that was published on a private blog 5 years ago, it has hundreds of public figures on, none of them seemingly connected until now.”  
“ Oh int-”  
“ - I’m sorry...was that… are you…. Was he your boyfriend?” Lestrade asked.  
“Astute observation Lestrade, as always.” Sherlock commented.  
“Sorry I just.. Well I’ve never seen you date anyone.”  
“Well you ought to get used to it. Pretty sure he’d sticking around this time.” Sherlock added.  
“This time?” John just gave Lestrade a look that said “I’ll fill you in later” Whilst Sherlock shot him a “What are you implying?” look. Not sure which one shut him up, but one of them did, and for that Sherlock was grateful. He wasn’t particularly keen on his private life being part of this kind of conversation. He didn’t even want to be here and yet here he was, being analysed and inspected by his friends.  
“Oh, there’s something else.” Lestrade piped up. Sherlock already started to roll his eyes before Lestrade could finish, but for once, he actually said something important. “You’re on this list.”


	4. The Broken Genius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlocks own internal battles and the terrible ways he deals with them

Chapter 4 

John could hear Sherlock playing the moment he stepped out of the taxi. Sometimes, if he caught him playing alone he’d linger in the hallway a little longer, just to hear the way Sherlock plays when he thinks no one is listening. He feels like he is getting an insight into Sherlock’s mind, into his ever protected emotions. Although, he does suspect Sherlock could have noticed he was there the whole time. He was, well, smart. But, whether Sherlock was playing because he thought he was alone,or he was playing because he wanted to impress John it didn’t really matter, it was still a little slice of Sherlock’s talent. Something only John ever got to fully appreciate in these small moments. 

As expected, Sherlock immediately stopped playing when John walked through the door.  
“You’re early.” He stated, as he set his violin down and lit a cigarette.  
“There’s been another-”  
“Murder, yes I know.”  
John rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s arrogant interruption.  
“Let me guess, you could deduce from the traces of dust on my trousers, and the length of my stride as I entered the room?”  
“Well, sort of...and I watch the news” He pointed at the tv that was displaying the news currently unfolding. They both laughed, and John shook his head, annoyed at himself for letting his guard down. He was supposed to be annoyed at Sherlock. But sometimes he just struggled to keep hold of a grudge. Especially with Sherlock. He wasn’t sure why. There was so much he wished he could’ve apologised for and stupid things he wished he never got angry about, when he found out Sherlock had ‘died’ all those years ago. Of course Sherlock wasn’t dead, but he didn’t know that. He supposes that feeling of regret lingered past the point of Sherlock’s return, and he found it difficult to not want to resolve and forgive any issue with him as quickly as possible, just in case….just in case…. well he didn’t really like to think about it. But then again, Sherlock was always getting himself into trouble. And when he wasn;t, these days he was just filling his bloodstream with drugs and his lungs with smoke. It was difficult not to think about the fact he could end up dead, his body laying limp on the roadside...again. And John hated to think about it. But then Sherlock said something that meant he couldn’t ignore it anymore. 

“I’m going to try and get myself killed.” 

“For F-” John started.  
“What exactly do you mean?” Lestrade had arrived a few moments after John. Neither knew the other was coming, but somehow Sherlock was expecting them both.  
“Well, if this killer wants to kill me, what better way to catch them then offer myself up as bait?”  
“And what if he kills you?”  
Sherlock just shrugged in response and began playing his violin again. A different tune than he’d been playing when John arrived. It was more… somber.  
“Sherlock you... I can’t watch it anymore, I can’t let you put yourself in danger or doing heroin at every hour of the day. You need to stop this. You need to be clean.”  
“Why John? Seriously, why do I need to be clean? What purpose would that serve? What’s the point?”  
“The point is your killing yourself Sherlock!”  
“So what?!!?” Sherlock laughed. 

***

Sherlock had resented life for as long as he could remember. The problem was, he knew he was smart, objectively, but this didn’t stop him from feeling like an idiot, like a fraud. HE had always felt so different, so out of place. Of course he could blame it on being ‘too clever’, but he didn’t really believe that. He felt there was something deeper inside him, something fundamentally broken about him. Which is, he assumes, why he turns so often toward some kind of vice. The thrill of a case, the high of a drug, the euphoria of starvation, and ever the adrenaline of self harm. 

He couldn’t quite understand how everyone else seemed to go about their daily lives still feeling whole. There was nothing whole about him. He felt like the shattered glass that seems, against all odds, to stay within the frame, fearing with every gust of wind that the shattered parts of him would simply scatter across the floor below. But eating or smoking or starving or cutting or shooting up always helped to fill the emptiness in him, momentarily.  
He assured everyone who noticed that it was all purely a logical choice. And most of the time, because of who he was and how he was, they’d believe it. He often stuttered on a word ever so slightly in hope that they’d notice, a subconscious desire to ask for help, to plead for it. But it never really worked, and he never fully committed to it, because deep down he didn’t really think he was deserving of help. And so, if he was caught not eating he would day “digestion slows me down”, when caught using he’d say “it’s for a case” when caught smoking he’d say “it helps me think.” It was all cleverly conceived lies. If you convince everyone around you that you’re a genius, and then say things with enough authority in your voice, they’ll believe you.  
The cutting’s a little different, though. Mycrofts the only person who ever noticed it. Sherlock grew clumsy one summer, wore a tank top specifically to aggravate his father who claimed only ‘gayboys’ wore them. Of course Sherlock was sort of proving his point, but his dad didn’t know this yet. Sherlock was smart enough to cut only in places that tended to be covered, he didn’t account for how high the tank top would rise when he was playing badminton with Mycroft. Although they were revealed for just a small moment, Mycroft noticed a whole host of both old and new scars across his younger brother's stomach. Mycrft was, of course, clever enough to deduce that Sherlock’s legs and chest were likely to reflect a similar pattern to his stomach, and understood what it all meant. This didn’t stop him, however, from humouring Sherlock, and pretending to believe him when he said it was purely an experiment in pain tolerance. Sherlock knew Mycroft didn’t buy it but neither brother brought it up again. 

John, of course, never noticed anything. During one case there was a girl who was covered in self harm scars. John tutted and commented “Why on earth would anyone do that to themselves?” Sherlock replied with the most basic wikipedia answer to the question pretending not to notice it was rhetorical. The answers he gave were shallow and scientific, his real answer to that question though, the fundamental truth behind his desire to harm himself is purely emotional. An answer he struggled himself to put into words, if he ever were to need to. Despite his perceived character, there were many things Sherlock struggled to put into words. It was endlessly frustrating for him.

Late into their relationship James would often remind him of his many flaws. It wasn’t often James would be spiteful and mean. In fact Sherlock would often describe him as the kindest man he had ever known. But when he was angry, or upset, the words he would say would cut like knives, that would bury themselves deep within you until you can’t keep yourselves from picking at them. The wounds scab over, but the memories scar, leaving fingerprints and teethmarks permanently etched into your soul. James would snap at Sherlock after dinner with his friends about how Sherlock had conducted himself. Reminding him that he was not ‘normal’ that his inability to hold a conversation was embarrassing. That he was embarrassing, unlovable, impossible or difficult. That he was cold or broken or just not enough. James would storm off into another room once he had said his piece, until hours later when he’d quietly slide next to Sherlock as he slept , gently wake him up to apologise, kiss his scars and tell him he loved him. And then spend weeks quietly making up for his overreaction, until it seemed his forgiveness was earned, and then it would happen all over again.


	5. Dinner Dates and Disasters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock becomes fascinated with the case, and John recalls a terrible double date.

Chapter 5

Sherlock was immediately fascinated by the latest case. Obsessed with the meticulousness of everything. How the murders were all so different, but all so interesting. “Fascinating” he’d mutter under his breath, inspecting the crime scene where a beloved television host had been found dead.  
“Sherlock. Crime scene” John shook his head.  
“Oh. Not good?”  
“Bit not good.”John said, smiling fondly. Despite the disregard for normal human social skills, John did enjoy watching Sherlock on a case, especially one he was excited about. John had watched Sherlock lose himself a lot over the years, he’d collapse into himself, become a quiet shell of a person. The only times he ever truly seemed himself, was on a case. So, of course he was happy to see Sherlock happy. That shouldn’t be a crime, even at a crime scene.  
But, like most things he did, Sherlock took it too far.  
***

A few weeks prior, John, Mary, Sherlock and James had gone out on a double date. It felt weird and unnatural to John. Mary said that probably meant something she didn’t really want to know. John told her to stop being ridiculous. They laughed. They paused. They changed the subject.  
Tensions were high before they’d even got to the appetizers. Despite Mary’s best effort the three boys she’d chosen to spend her evening with were not the most loquatious on a good day. And it seemed for all of them to be a bad day. She could tell James was trying his best to be friendly, asking John and her questions about the baby, when its due, whats the gender, whether they need help painting the nursery. Honestly it was mostly Mary and James even having any conversation, whilst John barely looked up from his dinner, whilst Sherlock sat in silence, never even touching his food. In the cab on their way home Mary found that John hadn’t even noticed the tension originally, and only commented that he just ‘had bad vibes about James’. But there was no way anyone would be able to not notice what happened after dessert.  
John pardoned himself from the table “excuse me, just popping to the loo.” He noted as he stood. “Oh, I’ll join you, I’m bursting” James added. John frowned slightly in reaction but forced a smile to seem polite.  
“What happened Sherl?” Mary asked, as soon as she knew their boys were out of earshot.  
Sherlock sighed. “What do you mean?”  
Mary just looked at him, giving him a hard knowing stare that forced him to come clean. He liked that about her, that she didn’t believe his bullshit.  
“We had a fight.”  
“Well,” Mary laughed. “You are a couple, and two of the most stubborn and opinionated people I’ve ever met. I’d be surprised if you told me you’d never had a fight.”  
“Of course we’ve had fights.” Sherlock sighed. “But this one...its …” He sighed. “I’m going for a cigarette.” Mary just rolled her eyes and he left her alone at the table. Maybe she shouldnt have asked. John returned moments later, alone. “Where’s James?” Mary asked, at the exact same time John asked “Where’s Sherlock?”  
“Smoking” They both replied at the same time. They laughed. “I guess they are pretty compatible then” Mary added. 

Sherlock rushed through the restaurant to their table, James walking slowly behind him. Sherlock picked up James’ coat and shoved it into his arms before putting his own on.  
“Sherlock. What’s wrong?” Mary started, whilst John just looked around bewildered.  
“You’re bleeding.” John interrupted. Sherlock lifted his hand to his face, and felt the blood dripping from his nose. Then he suddenly became very stern and turned James, his military poise betraying him he spoke “Did you do this?” But neither men replied, Sherlock instead, interrupted the awkward silence but shaking his head and quietly saying “We’re going home. Sorry.” His eyes seemed sad, Mary noted, broken. 

***  
Sherlock didn’t talk about James anymore, John had noticed, but he didn’t tell him anything about it either. So John felt sort of clueless. But he knew one thing, Sherlock was sober for the first time in months, and he was actually enjoying a case. But it didn’t last long. 

Rosie was born a few weeks later, and from then, John rarely even left the house. And so it was months before he saw Sherlock again, in person. He received the occasional text and even sent one too. But their friendship grew apart, a space grew between them that didn’t seem possible to break back into. And Sherlock was, quite honestly, spiralling. And Mrs Hudson had started to worry. 

Sherlock, she found, was always yelling. When John said that Sherlock and James had broken up she struggled to hide her surprise. She thought it best to stay out of it, because if Sherlock was keeping something from John there was probably a reason, and it definitely wasn’t her business, but she knew, for sure, he was still talking to someone. 

It was a while before she dared even go and check on him. Despite really, truly, caring about Sherlock as if he were her own son. She knew there were some times in a man's life when they need some space. They need to figure things out on their own. But there is a line that must be drawn. And for Mrs Hudson that came when he shot a hole straight through her front window.  
She was coming home from the shop when she saw the bullet flying through the upstairs window, the sound of classical music roaring, as Sherlock yelled in latin. Concerned and scared she rushed up the stairs and upon entering she saw the state of the flat. She knew things were bad with Sherlock. She had let herself believe it was better than she had imagined, gave him the benefit of the doubt. But it was awful. There were books newspapers and police files spread across the floor. Old plates and cups, dirty piled all over the flat. And the needles. Old dirty needles and spoons left discarded everywhere, and Sherlock just stood in the middle of it all, staring at the hole he'd just put in the window. It brought tears to her eyes and a lump in her throat.

But Sherlock was barely aware of Mrs Hudson entering. He was so lost in his mind, he felt he'd never escape the sharp criticism of his own psyche, the claws of his own existence, something he's been attempting to evade since he first became aware he even had thoughts of his own.  
He felt as if he was always running from himself. Escaping something he couldn't name. Something he couldn't but into words. But this time it wasn't sadness, it wasn't darkness, it wasn't emptiness he felt himself running from, like it had been many times before. It was fear, it was anger, it was chaos. But he couldn't escape it. It had him in his grasps so firmly he felt as if his mind would implode and take him down with it. 

James was concerned. Irritated even. His presence was uncomfortable at best. He barely spoke and when he did Sherlock could tell he was baiting for an argument, and honestly, most of the time Sherlock took the bait. In fact, most of the time, he wanted to fight. And it hurt him, to admit he often spurred James on. To admit he often caused the argument and provoked the anger. When things got thrown and doors got slammed, and both men, men who had loved each other so completely, were hanging on now only by a thread. It hurt that the sting of tears against his cheeks occurred more frequently than a gentle kiss to wake a lover. It hurts when the warmth of an embrace is replaced by a cold emptiness. A distance, a silence, an echo of a past love. When two bodies share one space but the walls are still carved with loneliness. The paint on the ceiling cracking, the click of a broken radiator and the drips from the kitchen tap, filled the silence more frequently than the sound of laughter. 

Together they fell apart. But they couldn't stand to leave each other, despite it all, hope lingers. It clings on for dear life. And Sherlock just decided to keep it quiet. As if silence could fix a broken record. He knew, after the incident at the restaurant, John would disapprove. He knew he'd be concerned. But really it wasn't a problem. They were growing apart, there were growing resentments. But what happened, that night, hadn't become a habit. Sherlock didn't even like to think about that night, let alone say it out loud. He couldn't admit it. But it wasn't a common occurrence, not really, not normally. 

But as he turned away from the window, he noticed Mrs Hudson stood in the door frame. James had gone out. Sherlock wasn't sure where, sometimes he forgot to listen, sometimes he wouldn't notice that the person he was talking to wasn't even in the room.  
Sherlock had been chain smoking all morning, talking to himself, just trying to work things out. He was jumping around the place, newspaper clippings all over the wall, his mind racing a million miles an hour as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Everything was beginning to make sense. "I know who it was, Mrs Hudson!!" he exclaimed suddenly.  
"oh" she jumped in shock, but tried to keep herself together. "Who is it?"  
Sherlock smiled, grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. "Moriarty" He said, then headed off toward the bathroom to take the first shower he'd taken in days.


	6. Cobwebs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The many lows and pleasant highs of Sherlocks life. His time living in a small London flat with James. Inspired by David Keenans song Cobwebs.

Chapter 6 

There was a night, well more than one, where Sherlock thought to end it all before. There were times even as a child the small genius figured out the ways in which life could be better, and concluded that he would always be without them. But he never tried, not really. Even as a misunderstood teenager, when he hadn’t eaten in a week, and had avoided meal times for at least a year prior, his emaciated body sitting in a hospital bed, nutrients forcing its way into his bloodstream. Impossible for him to reject this final meal. He had thought. First chance he got he’d jump from the roof. But it didn’t work out that way, because as much as he truly believed he wanted to die, the truth was he just wanted to be okay. And to his great surprise the group therapy and inpatient nurses actually helped. So he left, well in body and in spirit and he went on with life. Of course, he knew, it wouldn't last, it never did. He found himself back in the same hospital for a second time at 18, a few weeks before he was due to leave for University. This time, he had insisted, he never intended to hurt himself. Mycroft scoffed at this, he had seen the scars. But this wasn’t an attempt of any kind, nor was it a refusal to take care of himself or a desire to disappear as before. He had just simply miscalculated. 

“You! Miscalculated! I highly doubt that brother mine” Mycroft asserted at the preposterous. “You have the greatest mathematical mind this country has ever seen...well second greatest” He smiled. “I highly doubt you can miscalculate a dosage to such disastrous results.”  
“Well the problem, Mycroft, was that I was high when I was calculating!” Mycroft raised his eyebrows but didn’t reply.  
“Please just...don’t worry the parents.”  
“I think the amount of substances in your system will do that all on its own, Sherlock.”  
“I mean, don’t tell them it was on purpose.” Mycroft moved to reply but Sherlock interjected - “Because it WASN’T on purpose.” And so, against his better judgement, Mycroft kept Sherlock's secret...or he backed up Sherlock’s truth. Whichever, he only kept up such a deal on the premise that Sherlock would stay in treatment until he moved away to University.  
“I don’t want to receive a call from Oxford telling me you're dangling by a rope from the chapel's spire.”  
Sherlock often felt guilty, when he saw Mycroft care. It felt easy to resent yourself and reject your life when you thought no one cared. He didn’t much care for the reminder that he wasn’t, in fact, completely alone in the world. 

Going to University was difficult. But he had places to hide, and things to focus on, and ways to distract himself enough to not feel the overbearing guilt of hurting people he, regretfully, loved. He would spend most of his time in the chemistry lab, when he wasn’t in lectures or extracurriculars. He was already starting research on a proposed PhD before he’d even had a week of first year classes. It was almost futile going to the lectures anyway, since he already knew everything they were attempting to teach him. Though it passed the time. And he was supposed to be socialising. Which he didn’t really do. Until James. 

Everything felt better with James. The world seemed to glow even under grey clouds or dim flickering street lights. They got a flat together. It was a tiny run down flat, in the very top of a 6 story building above a liquor store. The ceilings curved and arched, reminding them every time they bumped their head as they got out the shower, that they essentially lived in an attic. It was dusty and there were cobwebs everywhere, and both had so much stuff and so little storage that they treated the ground as if it was a bookshelf, and the hall way as a bike shed. If they weren't tripping over the piles of stuff, they were tripping over each other. The heating rarely worked and there were always drunks outside and they only got around an hour a day of natural sunlight, that managed, against all odds, to creep in through their tiny single paned window and fall gently on the bed as they woke up every morning. It would wake Sherlock up first, hitting his side of the bed, before slowly migrating across the bed. Sherlock would watch as it glided across James’ body. His skin glistening under its golden rays. He’d watch his boyfriend slowly squint as he woke up, his eyes sparkling. James would immediately pull his head under the covers, he hated being woken up. But Sherlock would pull the covers down and insist James needed the vitamin D. To which James would reply “I need your vitamin D” and laugh. And they would giggle together, and kiss each other's skin, and trace their fingers over each other's bones, lace their hands through each other's hair, warm each other up under thin white sheets, until they finally, begrudgingly, pull themselves out of bed. Then they’d drink black coffee and smoke cigarettes, sitting on the small flat part of the roof that they have to climb out of the kitchen window to get to, and that they pretend is a balcony, watching as the rest of London wakes up, knowing that no one else gets to wake up as in love as they do. 

But the high of being in love didn’t eradicate the lingering darkness, the wolf still laid in wait at the bottom of the tree, waiting for the day Sherlock finally fell, alone and afraid, to be devoured. And Sherlock did fall. Love can’t save you from yourself, no matter how good it feels. And one day, Sherlock woke up, and he felt the sun on his face, and he saw the love of his life laying in front of him, and all he wanted to do was pull the duvet over his head, roll over, and fall back asleep.  
And things just kept getting worse. And he felt worse for it, because he was supposed to be happy. He had everything he wanted, he was in love, he was doing well in university, he felt content with everything, but he was still falling into this emptiness again. So if he can’t be happy when things are good, he thought, what is even the point.  
And so he silently just fell apart. Everyday felt empty, and lonely, and cold. He grew silent, and days would pass without him noticing. James would leave food for him on the desk, ready for when he woke up, but he would just turn away from it. Hunger was a distant memory at this point. But he’d try and play pretend for James, because he loved him and he deserved a normal happy boyfriend. 

It was early December and James wanted to have a christmas party with their friends before he went back to Ireland to see his family. Well, he said ‘their’ friends but really they were just James’, Sherlock only spent time with them when James was around and really he didn't even talk too much to them when he did. 

The small flat felt full pretty quickly. The rain pounding against the roof above was being drowned out by the Christmas music that was blasting from a mixtape James had spent hours making the night before. He added Bowie's Little Drummer Boy three times after finding out it was Sherlock's favourite. All of James friends were laughing and drinking wine, the girls in sparkly dresses and their hair filled with hairspray, the boys in garish christmas jumpers they'd decided to all wear, James included. He had even convinced Sherlock to put one on, although he only kept it on long enough for the girls to take a Polaroid of them together. He would look back at that Polaroid later and wish he had felt as happy as he looked. It looked like a snippet of a happy life, young love and good friends celebrating Christmas. But Sherlock didn't feel it. No matter what, no matter how he thought about it, he couldn't be happy. He was smart and he knew logically, objectively, things were good. Yet he still felt …. nothing. 

Sherlock escaped to the kitchen by taking up the opportunity to offer to get James another drink. But stood in the tiny kitchen alone, the sound of Little Drummer Boy seeping through the wall, alongside the sounds of high spirits and friendship and laughter echoed through the flat, made him feel more distant than the few feet of brick and tiles between them. 

"Sherlock? How long does it take to pour two brandys" James laughed as he stumbled into the kitchen. He giggled as he realised he was talking to an empty kitchen, before noticing the smoke billowing past the propped open window that led out to their make-shift balcony. "Sherlock" he called out in a sing-songy voice as he leaned over the counter to push the window open further. "What are you doing babe, it's pissing it down" he laughed. "you can smoke inside, everyone else is. I promise I won't tell the landlord" he put on a fake whisper, his voice slurred. But Sherlock remained silent. Confused, James clambered onto the counter and perched on the window ledge, so his body was half in the kitchen, half out on the roof getting soaked by the rain.  
Sherlock turned slowly to look at James as he took the last drag of his cigarette before throwing it off the roof to fall down to the damp pavement below. James noticed, Sherlock's eyes were glistening and his hands shaking. A lump grew in James throat, his heart dropped and he felt himself immediately sober up. He smiled nervously, "Babe," his tone cautious, "Come on in now, you'll catch a bitter cold out here." His thick Irish accent caught in his throat as he talked, stuttering with fear.  
"I'm sorry James I can't - "  
"No, no, Sherlock, you just come in now okay" James said, panic rising in his voice. Sherlock just turned away. He started straight down at the ground below, the end of his cigarette still barely visible in a puddle below. He kept his eyes fixed on it as he spoke his voice so quiet it almost got lost in the wind. "I'm so sorry." He took a step closer to the edge. But James was faster, he tackled him, almost sending both of them flying off the edge, having not accounted for how slippery the roof tiles could get under such torrential rains. Everything happened so quickly, James could barely remember fighting to pull Sherlock back into the window. Could barely recall the way his limp body fell flatly against the tile with a heavy thud. He never thought about the pain on Sherlock's face at realising his life was saved. But he does remember being crumpled on the cold kitchen tile, Sherlocks shaking body beneath his, as he held Sherlock's face between his hands, both man's faces stained with a mixture of rain and tears. James looked deep into the broken man's soul and between sobs spoke "No! No! You can't do that Sherlock! You don't get to do that to me!" His voice shuddered "You're life is not your own...keep your hands off it!" As the two men silently cried together, a shiver ran down James' spine as the sound of the blissfully ignorant party guests singing along to Elton John from the next room echoed through the flat


	7. Suspicious Minds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suspicions arise at Scotland Yard over how Sherlock seemed to always know exactly what the murderer was thinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a bit short so I added 7 and 8 together, hope you like it!!

Chapter 7 

Months into the case and the police had no leads onto who the killer could be. Sherlock, however, seemed to be very sure.   
“Listen Sherlock I believe you, but you haven’t given us much to go on.” Lestrade insisted.  
“What do you mean, he basically confessed.”   
“A vague tweet from an unknown user isn’t enough.”  
“That vague tweet led you to the murder scene.”  
“No, Sherlock, you led us to the murder scene.”   
“What are you implying?”   
“Nothing, just, let us do our job, if you get anything more substantial, then we might be able to arrest this ‘Moriarty’ guy, but until then we have nothing. Besides we don’t even know who this guy is”   
“I know who he is.” Sherlock said.  
“Have you ever even met him?” John asked, but was spoken over by Lestrade who continued telling Sherlock how his word isn’t enough.   
“What did you say?” Sherlock turned to John, but as he spoke John’s phone rang out loudly, and before Sherlock knew it John was rushing out the door, saying something about their babysitter cancelling.   
But Sherlock had made a lot of enemies, just from being himself, and a lot of the officers resented the fact Lestrade overlooked all the illegal activities that seemed to occur in 221B baker street, and the fact he let Sherlock into crime scenes when he was clearly high.   
“He’s not on our payroll, what do you want me to do? Tell HR? We don’t have any jurisdiction over him.”   
“Oh besides the fact that we are the police and he’s given enough reason for a warrant a thousand times over?” Anderson piped up.   
“How did he know?” Donovan added.  
“He knows a lot” Lestrade added.   
“Yeah, suspicious isn’t it? That he seems to know details only the killer would know.”   
“What are you implying?” Lestrade asked, crossing his arms over his chest.   
“We should at least humour the idea he is somehow involved”  
***

Sherlock lay on the carpeted floor, watching a spider crawl slowly up the wall toward its web, where a fly was struggling to escape the webs capture, only, the struggle just trapped it further. John was reading out from a newspaper.   
“Great detective Sherlock Holmes was brought into Scotland Yard for questions on Wednesday night, in connection to a series of murders he has been working on. A source tells us the Police are investigating the potential that Sherlock Holmes has ‘hero syndrome’ and created the crime scenes just so he could act the hero by solving it. All other investigations Sherlock aided on are currently also under scrutiny, but so far no anomalies have arised.”   
“This is bad Sherlock.” John added, when Sherlock made no effort to reply. “They’re turning the public against you now, even if they don’t prosecute you’ll have this tied to your name forever.”   
“It’s fine.” Sherlock added, in a monotone voice.  
“How? How is any of this fine?”  
“Because, I just have to prove it was Moriarty.”   
John sighed and put his face in his hands.   
“What?” Sherlock jolted up. “You don’t believe me.” He smiled. “You actually think I did it.” He chortled.   
“Of course I don’t fucking think you did it. I - “ John got very serious, Sherlock stopped smiling.   
“What?” He asked cautiously.   
“You mean a lot to me Sherlock. I care a lot about what people think about you, this is serious, and I wish you cared.”   
“Why would you care about what people think about me?”  
“Because, you idiot, I care about you.” Sherlock didn’t know what to say. He felt his mouth go dry.   
“Well I… care about you.”   
“Then stop fucking about and clear your fucking name.” John said, before leaving. Sherlock felt as if the room around him was falling apart.   
It could have been hours, it could have been minutes, it could have been days. Sherlock spiralled into a mess. His mind was racing a million miles an hour trying to figure out where and how he could catch Moriarty. He traced back all the interactions he’d had with him and attached it all by string in chronological order around the flat, but every time he came close to the truth, it seemed to fall apart in front of him. It was like trying to cage smoke. His mind whirred over and over the same things until it began to repeat a memory that had been irking him, that he had tried to push aside. The moment when John had asked a simple question, a question that could unravel everything he thought he knew, could make him question his own memories. It was when John asked “Have you ever even met Moriarty?”.   
It just didn’t make sense. John knew Moriarty, John had met Moriarty, John knew it was Moriarty who forced Sherlock to jump off St Barts, how could he not remember? Unless… Well the drugs had been messing with his memories a bit, maybe he truly had made it all up, or forgotten it all...or...   
Then in walked James.


	8. Inconclusive Conclusions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock feels as if he is finally seeing clearly, and he doesn't like what he sees.

Chapter 8

"Hey" James said as he walked in the door. His hair was a mess, and there were bruises beginning to appear on the ends of his knuckles. Sherlock's heart sank as the sound of the breaking news on the TV behind him spoke of another body found in Central London. Sherlock’s brain ticked quickly, for the first time in a long time he felt as if it was coming to a conclusion, reaching an end, figuring it all out. And it suddenly came together, unfolded before his eyes, in the small milliseconds since James entered the flat, Sherlock's brain had ran through a thousand different thoughts. Sherlock suddenly remembered seeing something, just a small glance, a tiny fraction of a second many years ago, but it stuck, somehow. He had seen, out of the corner of his eye, James' passport, the first time they'd gone to Ireland together to visit James' family. James had never told Sherlock his middle name, he said he didn't really like it, and Sherlock wasn't bothered enough to try and find out. But that brief second was enough to firmly plant it in Sherlock's brain, ready for him to recall at this exact moment. "James Moriarty Byrne''.   
Sherlock looked up, staring at James’ face as he read an old copy of Rebecca whilst he drank coffee, a mundane act Sherlock had seen a hundred times before, but he felt as if he was seeing James for the first time. And as he continued to stare, he watched as all the memories of Moriarty merged with his own of James, and the face of Moriarty flickered across James’ own face in between sips of coffee, on and off in Sherlock’s mind until it rested as one. And Sherlock finally saw James for who he was. And he thought back to all the times James’ had insisted on buying the drugs, all the times he had let him inject it into his bloodstream. How long had he been poisoning his mind? Sherlock wondered. How long had James been purposely tampering with Sherlock's memories?  
“I’m going out,” Sherlock said, determined to remain emotionless as he headed toward the door.   
*  
Sherlock arrived at Johns, pressing the bell with a great sense of urgency. John’s face dropped as he opened the door. “Sherlock, your face.” Sherlock silently turned to face John’s hallway mirror. It was small and with a blue frame, and was surrounded by family photos. Sherlock had bought it for John and Mary as a present, because John kept leaving the house with some toy of Rosie's in his hair, or a mess of jam across his front. But Sherlock’s reflection didn’t tell the story of a new father. He had a scar across his cheek, fresh and bleeding, which in turn was beginning to bruise and swell.   
“What happened Sherlock?” John asked, after too long a moment of silence. “He could see as Sherlock absentmindedly touched his scar, there were tears forming in his eyes. “I...I think it’s James.” Sherlock spoke softly, his voice cracking.   
“James did this to you!” John’s voice rose, his anger turbulent at the thought of it, disregarding his earlier attempt to avoid waking Rosie and Mary.   
“No...no….I mean yes but I mean…. I hate it, I don’t want to admit it because it means it’s all fake, all the love is fake.”  
“What? Sherlock you aren’t making any sense.”   
I think James is Moriarty… I mean I know he is.”   
John was silent. They both sat down, Sherlock on the armchair and John on the sofa, just as they always did in 221B.  
“I knew he was an asshole, but a serial killer?” John exclaimed. Sherlock put his head in his hand, wincing in pain when he accidentally touched his open wound. “It’s just... I don’t want it to be true. He - he’s the only man who ever loved me, the only love I’ve ever felt that felt real, and true. I don’t want it to be all pretend.”   
“Sherlock, please, people love you, people will love you, even if it’s not James. You can be loved.”   
“You can’t say that. Not you.”   
“Why...why not me?”  
“Because, John, I love you, you know that.”   
John was silent for a moment. A moment too long, it lingered in the air like an echo of a church bell, ringing out over an empty village after midnight.   
John took a deep breath and walked around the coffee table in the centre of the room, to look out the window. “I wish I could love you the way you love me.” He said. “But I can’t.” He turned to face Sherlock, who nodded in quiet acceptance, and left without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter left after this, did you expect the twist?


	9. The Riechenbach Falls (Again)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything becomes clear, for everyone involved, and nothing is what it seems.

Chapter 9

Sherlock couldn't remember much of what happened between leaving Johns and waking up the next day. He was on complete autopilot. His heart shattered to pieces, knowing that the love he had for the right man, the good man, would always be unrequited. And the love he found to be requited was with the devil. When he woke up the flat was empty. Sherlock wasn't sure what had happened when he left the flat that night to go to Johns, he could remember a struggle, he must have confronted James, they must've fought. It was all very blurry, that whole day. From the moment things clicked into place, Sherlock felt like a mess of emotion. Incoherent. Confused. But he felt clearer now. He knew what had to be done.

He got up and wandered into the living room, where he saw from the window, Johns's car parked outside. He picked up his violin and began playing his own composition.

"You're here to help with James I suppose" Sherlock said, not turning away from the window as he continued to play.

"Sherlock, James isn't here." John said. There was an unnerving tone to his voice that was enough to still Sherlock's hand. He put down his violin and bow and turned to face his guests.

"What? Well not now, he left last night, I assume"

"No, Sherlock, James isn't in the country. He hasn't been for a while."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"You remember he left, months ago, after that dinner, when you broke his nose?"

"I- no he broke my nose" Sherlock was suddenly remembering his fist hitting James nose. How Sherlock had cried and begged James to stay as he walked out the door with his suitcase.

"No, you broke his nose, remember, darling. He was leaving you again, and you were upset." Mary interjected, her tone calmer than Johns, who seemed frustrated, aggravated, concerned.

"No that - he was here yesterday! He gave me this." Sherlock pointed to his black eye.

John and Mary looked at each other concerned.

"He's evil, he's tricked you. It was him, this whole time, he was Moriarty! I was blind not to see it, but it was him, he's been killing all these people."

"Sherlock…" Mary looked as if she were about to cry.

"Yes, it was him. Mary, he's good I know, he tricks people, he gets into their head, but I need you right now to know I am telling the truth." Sherlock quickly turned. "John, you believe me. Of course I can trust you, you believe me right."

John was silently looking at the floor, he slowly raised his head and Sherlock noticed his face was angry, angrier than he'd ever seen it. "Not this time." He spoke in a slow quiet whisper.

"Mary, please tell your husband he's-"

"SHUT UP! Stop fucking talking." John roared. "You don't get to do that." His voice was shaking. "You don't get to say her name. You don't get to say my wifes name. Not after what you did."

"What I did." Sherlock laughed, exasperated.

"Oh don't you dare. You can have your delusions about James all you like, but you don't pretend you don't remember, not her. You have some GODDAMN RESPECT YOU COWARD." Sherlock was thrown by John's sudden seemingly irrational anger. Then suddenly, in a quiet shaky whisper, tears beginning to fall down his face John spoke the words that changed everything. "You killed her."

"Wha-"

"YOU KILLED HER YOU MONSTER"

"I - Wha-" Sherlock looked back at Mary, except, where she was stood, where she was just standing, only moments ago, was just an empty space.

"You killed, and you killed and you killed. And you convinced everyone you were the good guy, on the side of the angels. You convinced us all you were actually trying to help. But it was you, all along. It was always you. How could you- to me, how could you lie to me?"

"No, no thats not - thats not the truth"

The room felt like it was spinning, and suddenly, Sherlock was remembering things. Remembering things he didn't even know he'd forgotten. The feel of his fist breaking James' nose. The empty spaces he was sure James had been in all those times. The way his hands felt around his victims throat as he choked them to death. How they fought back, left him with a black eye and a scar across his face. He remembered seeing James walking in the flat, with his knuckles bruised, only it wasn't James, it was himself he had seen. He remembered the way he had felt after John told him he could never love him. How everything had gone black. How he felt in his mind there was only one thing to do. He remembered the way his heart was beating in his throat as he waited on the street for John to go to work. How he'd eagerly watched as he cycled away. He remembered the feeling of pushing the key in the lock, the key John had so caringly trusted him with. He remembered the excited look on Rosies face as she noticed him before her mother did. He remembered the sound Mary made when he pushed the knife into her stomach. The look in her eyes as she realised what had happened. The sounds of Rosies crying as he rushed out the back door, leaving her mother bleeding out on the kitchen floor.

"NO, NOOOOO" Sherlock screamed. He couldn't understand. How, HOW could it all be true. He fell to the ground in a panic, clutching his head as he rocked back and forth, the memories of all the horror he had inflicted flooding into his mind. He noticed, as he looked up to see John staring down at him,that the walls were flashing with blue light. The police were downstairs. They were here for him. He heard as their footsteps marched up the stairs, pushing Mrs Hudson out of the way. As he looked into John's eyes, a thousand memories passed his mind. Of all the times they shared, of all the good times they had, of the ways John had looked at him before. And now, he saw nothing but pure hatred. And as Greg and his team entered the room, John spoke quietly, so only Sherlock could hear him, and said "I wish you had died when you jumped off that roof."

There had been two times when Sherlock had been on a roof with James with the intention of jumping. The first, James had pulled him down, cried with him and told him he loved him. The second, he had forced him to jump. Or so Sherlock had thought. So he had remembered. But with his memories becoming clearer and clearer everyday, he remembered, in moments, in flashes, of unkempt clarity.

"This is my note" He spoke to John, who was standing on the ground below. Sherlock hadn't intended for him to be seeing this. His mind was racing. He felt panicked. He didn't want to hurt John, but carrying on living felt like something worse. And then there was the voice in his head, telling him he is better off dead, telling him his story is over, telling him John would be better off without him, that everyone he knows would be better off without him.

That voice sounded a lot like James.

But James wasn't there. It was obvious now, what had happened. Sherlock had gone through a trauma, when he fell to the ground, and hit his head. He was as good as dead when John rushed over to him with a host of doctors and nurses. It was an oversight on Sherlocks part, if he really wanted to die he should've chosen a taller building, and definitely not one filled with people who would immediately try and save you. But alas he lived. And what's more, he lived with pretty much no major brain damage. He had spent two years in an inpatient facility. 8 months were mainly focused on the physical, he had to learn to walk again. But after that it was purely suicide watch. Mycroft had paid the hospital off to be particularly wary, to pay the closest of attention to Sherlock Holmes. But Sherlock was horrified at the thought of John knowing how truly broken he was, knowing where he was, and instead, created a false reality, in which he believed John thought he was dead. This of course wasn't true. John had been to visit Sherlock at almost every available opportunity over the 2 years he was in hospital. But Sherlocks mind deleted what it wanted, to feel better, and created what it wanted, to make the lies he told himself make sense.

But what no one knew, because Sherlock was a great liar, was that the fall had affected him. He had begun to see things. He had begun to remember things wrong. And he'd begun to have black outs that lasted anywhere between hours and days. And so, in the corner of his room, for the two years he stayed there, was a vision on the person who hurt him most, who had led him to stand on the ledge of a roof more than once. He saw an evil, twisted version of the man he once loved, who had hurt him so often. This version of James, this 'Moriarty', would torture him from inside his head. Play games with him. Convince him he was alone in the world. Convince him to do things he didn't want to do. But he could shake him, he'd often forget him for months at a time. And when the real James would come back into his life, he would find it difficult to distinguish the real James and the version he had in his mind. And sometimes, when he was high, he would forget about 'Moriarty' all together. And other times, when he was coming down, he'd be so confused and scared, he would fear James and love Moriarty.

And then, the final time James left him, and Sherlock knew it was really over, he got so lost in his mind, Moriarty came back with full force. This time, Moriarty was able to convince him to abandon the side of the angels. And Sherlock would often find himself waking up, days passed since he last remembered anything, with blood on his hands and a bad taste in his mouth. And he wouldn't remember a thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if you want me to continue this story, I have ideas for more chapters but I'm not sure!


	10. PART TWO: Mirrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From inside prison walls Sherlock reflects on the last time he was locked away.

PART TWO

Chapter 10

It wasn’t the first time Sherlock had been locked away. This time of course, was for the safety of others. But his first time was for the safety of himself. He’s sure now, that everyone who had tried so hard to save him would regret it now, after all that he had done. There wasn’t much he remembered from the time he was in hospital, it had only just begun to come back to him. For so long he believed an entirely different narrative, a story he’d told himself to feel better about everything that had happened. A fairytale. But this was real life and he was beginning to see it all for what it was. And it reminded him of why he wanted to create a false reality so badly. Because real life hurts. Especially when you lose yourself so thoroughly you begin to mourn your own loss. 

There were things he’d left behind when he was first discharged from hospital all those years ago. He left a scarf that they’d confiscated, a notebook filled with deluded ramblings that had fallen down the back of his bed, and a mind free from the voice of ‘Moriarty’. He’d first appeared after a few months. He was quiet at first. He’d just sit in the corner of the room and roll his eyes when the nurses were being particularly patronising. Then he started to speak up, pointing things out that Sherlock hadn’t noticed, like the ticks in other patients that proved they were bluffing in a game of poker. Then he’d point out the way the nurse fiddled with her ring, that she was obviously having an affair with one of the doctors. Then he pointed out that the nervous laugh shared between two patients was, in fact, directed at him, and that he should shut them up. So Sherlock did.  
It was games night, which it was every Thursday, and he was playing scrabble with two other patients, when Moriarty made this astute observation, Sherlock climbed over the table and shoved the bag of scrabble tiles so far down the louder of the two patients throat, that they almost suffocated there on the games room floor. “I wonder what kinds of words they’ll cough up!” Moriarty had laughed, as he watched the whole thing go down. Sherlock was banned from games night for two months. But even after incidents like this, the staff were never concerned about Sherlock. They never considered him a danger to society, or at least they didn’t act like they did. But maybe that's because they were getting paid off by the british government himself to give Mr Holmes 'preferable treatment.’

Mirrors in prisons and hospitals aren’t made of glass or metal like normal mirrors. Instead they are made of a bendable piece of plastic and glued to the wall, in an attempt to prevent accidents and injuries. When you look in them, there is no angle or position for you to stand that won’t distort your face in some way. So for years and years, locked away, whilst the world outside the walls solidifies an understanding of who you are, either in the memories of your loved ones, or printed in black and white in every news publication in the country, your own reflection stops looking like you. And everyday that you look in the mirror you try and remember what your face actually looks like, and everyday you lose a little bit more of that memory. Until one day you look at yourself and you couldn’t for the life of you pick out the details of your face that are wrong. And if you let the madness of the place really get to you, and if you let the solitude and repressed emotions overspill out of your mind and into your reality, you might forget who you are completely. And what do you do when that happens? Do you keep searching inwards, digging into an emptiness so deep and vast if you go too far in you wouldn’t be able to tell which way was up? Or do you push it all outward, create a new reality, create a new voice, create a new chapter, and let that control you? But once you do that it becomes harder and harder to get back to yourself, that even a glimpse inward at the darkness can haunt you, and any memory of a life before can drown you.  
So Sherlock just kept running from the darkness. In the hospital he was running toward Moriarty, letting him consume him completely. And in prison, he couldn’t think of any other direction to go at all. So he sat on the edge of his cold hard bed, staring ahead of him at the distorted mirror above the sink, and he said “Hello, Moriarty. Do make yourself at home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey I know this chapters kind of short but I have a lot more planned to come! Let me know if you like it!


	11. You're Somebody Else

Chapter 11

When James had first met Sherlock he knew immediately that he could fall in love with him. Moving away from family for the first time was a nerve-wracking experience, regardless of how he acted. He didn’t like his family and friends to know how scared he could get. He was always an anxious child, but he had always hid it well, ignoring fears and pain and persevering like everything was okay. But things rarely were okay. But the running away that often caused him to flee from Sherlock’s comforting grasp, is the very thing that led him straight into his arms in the first place.   
He could see right through Sherlock from the moment he met him. They were the same, the way they acted overly arrogant to cover up for their deep unmoving insecurities. And it was with James that Sherlock finally faltered. They moved quickly from feared friends, reticent to make the first move, to home grown lovers, hanging onto each other like ivy overgrown on the side of a house, their vines wrapping into each other, intertwining and pulling each other apart at the foundation. But it felt like home, and that was the most important thing to both of them. James, who missed his own home, and Sherlock, who never felt he had one, drawn together like magnets from across the room, and could never pull themselves apart, no matter how hard they tried. 

But when James saw Sherlock sitting on the window ledge, a little piece of him tumbled, like the brown leaves of autumn, falling gently to the ground, and so did James. Crumpling to the floor with Sherlock, no life or hope in his eyes. But unlike the seasons, James felt like the leaves he once had never did regrow. And he felt, in their relationship, that he was always waiting for the woodcutter to come, with an axe to his back, and send him toppling down. And would Sherlock be there to see him fall? Would Sherlock be the woodcutter? Would Sherlock be the axe? He didn’t know. But he felt he was walking a tightrope, until one day, it broke, and now, he was sat opposite Sherlock, armed guards around him, and chains around his beloved's wrists. 

“How did this happen Sherlock?” James had tears in his eyes as he spoke. Sherlock struggled to make eye contact.   
“Things...happen.” Sherlock said, rolling his neck. “I can’t explain it.”   
“Can’t you try?” Sherlock just looked at him.   
“You would know.”   
“Well. I thought I would. I knew you. More than anyone in the world, more than anything in the world. I have entire encyclopedias of knowledge in my mind, I know so so much, but there was nothing I knew better than you. I knew you were a broken soul in an arrogant dress, I knew you were excited to watch the sunrise, I knew you enjoyed nothing more than proving your intelligence, I knew you hid from everyone you knew, I knew you struggled to toe the line of society, I knew you loved me. But now I know nothing, Sherlock. Nothing at all.”   
“Yes, well, I thought I knew you too, but, turns out you’re somebody else.”  
*  
Sherlock had spent the whole night fighting with Moriarty. His mind a blaze, he felt he couldn’t see past his own memories. They flashed against the back of his eyes, like an old movie projector, reminding him of all the good, all the bad, all the unforgivable. How could anyone sleep with a movie like that, screaming in their mind. And Moriarty just kept reminding him of things, or convincing him of things that weren’t true, or were they? Sherlock felt a shock of uncertainty at every hour. The time clicked on and he wondered if he’d been here before, in this ward on this day at 3am, wondering if the blood on his hands was real, wondering if the ambulance was coming for the nurse, wondering if he’d wake up from this nightmare and realise it was the just the side effect of having watched a horror movie too late as a child, after his sister had tormented him for being too afraid. Sister? He thought. What sister?  
“See you got it wrong there Moriarty, I don’t have a sister, I have a brother. Just one brother.” Sherlock said.   
“Oh, guess you got me there.” Moriarty replied, his form hidden in the shadows of the corner of the room. “ But isn’t it just so much more fun to play pretend. You used to do it all the time, remember. Remember Redbeard.”   
“No. That’s child’s play. I don’t keep that kind of thing in my mind palace. More important things to keep.”  
“Like the floorplan for this hospital?”   
“Exactly.”   
“You’ll have to kill her first, of course.” Moriarty, feigning a sympathetic smile he motioned to the door, where the night nurse was checking on him through the small window in his door.   
“Oh wait… you already did.” Sherlock looked back to the door and realised the nurse was not a nurse at all, but Mary Watson. He blinked, and suddenly she was stood right in front of him, her eyes filled with pain and fear, and worst of all, betrayal. “Sherlock….Why?” She whimpered.  
“Go on Sherlock, tell her why. Pleeaaaaaaaseeee. For me.” Moriarty stood to Sherlock's right, leaning on his shoulder. “Tell her why you did it Sherlock.”  
“I...I don’t know.”   
“Oh come on, you can do better than that.”   
“I don’t know, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry Mary. “ Sherlock felt his breath stutter.   
“No you're not.” Moriarty sighed, his voice monotone and walked to Sherlock’s left side. “Well, I’ll tell her then shall I. Since you're not playing.” He pouted. “He killed you because he loves John.” Moriarty held his heart, mocking Sherlock. “How sweeeeeet. He loved him more than he ever loved me. He never killed for me. Never. No matter how many times I asked. Well...maybe once or twice. But that was never as good as when he killed you Mary. That was just so…..sexy.” Sherlock was crying now, Mary had vanished.   
“How do you do it?” Sherlock asked.   
“Do what? “ Moriarty smiled.   
“Not feel pain. You kill so much and you never feel it. You never feel their pain, you never feel your own pain. How does it not affect you?”  
“Ohhh I feel it Sherlock.” He replied, patting Sherlock on the shoulder. “You always feel it. You just don’t have to fear it.” He was so close to Sherlock’s face, he could feel his breath on his neck. But as close as he was, Sherlock felt he couldn’t see him, couldn’t truly see him. He saw James, the man he loved, the kindest man he’d ever loved, and he saw Moriarty, the worst of the worst, the most evil. But then, he saw himself. And then he saw black, and the next thing he knew he was being walked to the visitors room to greet James like an old friend, and pretend he hadn’t been in his head all night.


End file.
